The Doctor, The Soldier, and The Madman
by 1yellowfish
Summary: John knows there's something Sherlock's missing, but he's a little busy being bait in a faulty trap to deal with that right now. The 1st of The Mrs. Hudson Conspiracy, where John get's a clue, then gets more than he can handle. Kidnapped to act as a gentleman and trapped with nine brothers to keep safe. Rated M (probably a T) for later chapters 13/13 (Finished all posted)
1. Chapter 1 - Call Me John

Chapter 1

John Watson knew he was an adrenalin junkie. One week living with Holmes hadn't sent him running and that in and of itself had many at Scotland Yard eyeing him with a cross between horror and awe. Still there was more than the fix of a chase or fear for his life that made him eager to maintain his new address. He knew in his heart he loved the mystery of it all. He would sit typing on his blog in the living room with his near comatose flatmate waiting for the spark to alight in his eyes and for him to spring from his chair and fling himself out of the flat off to solve a case no one knew was a case from deducing the way an hanky was folded from some mother he'd seen on the street that afternoon. The way the lanky man would pick apart every tiny detail sent thrills down Watson's back and he craved those moments. He never retired to his room until the last moment, or when his wound really did incapacitate him, sometimes not even then, he hated to miss the action.

So often were the two off solving crimes, and sometimes just tiny mysteries that seemed to crop up, things Sherlock would never have taken interest in before but now happily demonstrated his brilliance to see the rapt attention in John's eyes, that it took some time for John to realize that there was a giant mystery right at home at 221B. He'd been quite happily cohabitating with the skinny genius for months and often witnessed the clues but it was one afternoon when his leg was playing havoc that he finally noticed.

He had thought it a good idea to stretch his legs and hoped some crisp air would help him relax as his shoulder ached terribly. He had been wrong. The "crisp air" quickly became bitter and provoked the ache deep in his bones, but he'd made it further than he'd thought. He would have called a cab but was disappointed to find he had managed to leave without his wallet. Gritting his teeth he soldiered on back to the home front and thought longingly about a cup of tea. Dismay rocked him as he remembered they yet again had no milk. How they went through the stuff so fast he'd never know; he suspected Sherlock poured it down the drain just to irritate him, especially since he couldn't prove it. He'd made it to the welcome door with its numbers gleaming and tried to ignore the fact that his damned leg was acting up to, protesting in a way it hadn't in weeks and only really did when he was feeling helpless and sorry for himself. He hated his leg.

He took the four steps up to the door and was quickly inside. The warmth was an immediate relief. He stood for a moment and just let it wrap around him and chase away some of the chills he'd let affect him.

"Is that you Mr. Watson, dear?" Came the motherly tones of Mrs. Hudson, her door opening and the scent of sweet baked goods assailed him.

"Yes Mrs. Hudson, and please it's John." He called back feet already ascending the steps. He would have liked to speak with her properly and his mother would be appalled at his lack of manners but he just wanted his armchair and in a fit of mental petulance decided to blame Sherlock for his antisocial behavior. "I'm just heading up, do you need anything from the store later?" _Well,_ he reasoned with his guilty conscience,_ I wasn't entirely rude now was I?_

"No thank you dear, I've just finished baking would you like a biscuit? Just this once mind you, I'm your landlady not your housekeeper." She appeared at the bottom step a plate of ginger snaps in hand. They smelt heavenly and John found himself turning towards the wonderful aroma.

And that was when his leg failed him. It buckled suddenly and he hadn't his stick to balance, he was turned sideways and his arms flung out to catch himself, but too late, he was going to fall and crash into Mrs. Hudson with her bad hip. He was shocked how quickly his mind panic turned to guilt about what was about to happen, when he suddenly realized it hadn't happened.

He opened his eyes to find Mrs. Hudson halfway up the stairs inserted under his shoulder and taking a good deal of his weight along with handing him a biscuit.

"There now dear, you've gone and injured yourself." She tutted.

"How did you" He started.

"Now, now none of that let's get you upstairs. My you weigh more than that scoundrel Sherlock. Do tell him I said so, he needs to eat more you know. Poor Angelo tries so hard to feed him up, doesn't know what's good for him does he?" She prattled on. "Still now with his own doctor I'm certain he'll start to shape up. You'll see to that won't you Mr. Watson?"

Somehow the woman had managed to get him up the stairs, into his flat, sat in his chair with a blanket tucked around his shoulders, and she was looking at him imploringly and he found himself nodding despite himself.

"Good. Good. You are a dear, John." She deposited the plate of gingersnaps in his lap and disappeared into the kitchen to make him a cuppa 'just this once.'

Nibbling on the still warm baked goods and taking a sip of his piping hot tea he realized she had gone, and she had finally called him John. Suddenly he wasn't certain that was a good thing. He never heard her call anyone by their first names, well except Sherlock. Think of the Devil and all that; the man burst through the door with his normal dramatic flair coat swirling dramatically as he flung himself into his chair picking up his violin halfway down and plucked a chord the moment he hit the cushions.

"BORED" He intoned with the violated strings and let out a regal sigh closing his eyes.

John couldn't help snorting a chuckle into his tea which made him cough. Really the man was a child and it shouldn't amuse him so much.

It wasn't until late that night when he'd managed to make himself climb the stairs to his room that he realized there was one other person he'd heard Mrs. Hudson call by their first name, and just that day too. Angelo. Satisfied for the moment he slept quite peacefully.


	2. Chapter 2 - Bait and Switch

**AN - Don't own John, he's happy about that. Jerk. **

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Chapter 2

Sherlock kept him busy quite a bit the next few weeks, roaming half the city looking for a serial kidnapper. The Yard was certain the man was a serial killer but they had yet to find the bodies, Sherlock had declared them all idiots and told them there hadn't been any murders and there wouldn't be if he could help it.

That had set Donovan off claiming if he knew so much he must be in on it and would he like to come in for questioning. John didn't hear the scathing comments that caused the woman to sputter and turned Anderson and interesting shade of puce, he'd gone on ahead to call the taxi. Sherlock was right of course, although he'd been a little too gleeful about the perpetrators brilliance. Not quite bad enough to earn a "not good" just enough for a well-placed raised eyebrow to curb his enthusiasm some.

It had taken a full week for a breakthrough in the case and John was less than pleased when yet again he was used as bait set up in a prime location dressed in clothes that didn't suit him pretending to be the privileged son of some new wealth that was the next target Sherlock had predicted. As he'd been knocked on the head and shoved into a passing van he had a fleeting thought of '24.' When he woke up he giggled that he was kidnapped, abducted, held hostage, and bait so often that he had taken to counting them and even had a spread sheet on his computer that would need updating.

He managed to look around the tiny office where they'd bound him there was a pile of new cement bags, a metal cupboard, a desk covered in dust behind him he could just make out a door and that made him sigh wearily, it was a warehouse. Once, just once he wanted to be kidnapped and wake up somewhere unpredictable, like on the London Eye. That would be interesting; it would keep him guessing how they managed to get him there in the first place. So he sat on his metal chair mindlessly working at the predictable knots thinking about how he would manage to get an unconscious high-profile kidnap victim onto the London Eye so they would wake up just as the carriage reached the pinnacle. He had one hand almost free when he stilled as a man made his 'stealthy' approach from behind.

"Can't you be a little more creative with your locations? I'm getting sick and tired of warehouses." He really blamed Sherlock for his inability to keep quiet. Although he knew he would do the same even before he'd met Sherlock, incident number 1 in Afghanistan; that was a cave though.

There was a confused silence. "So, not Francis after all, and here I'd hoped, never mind." The man huffed. "You'll do all the same." Rough hands had reached down and tightened the ropes around his nearly free hands until he was certain they were turning purple.

A knife had appeared and sliced him free of the chair and the fist that gripped the back of his tailored-for-someone-else-therefore-ill-fitting shirt pulled him to his feet choking him slightly. The man behind him hadn't spoken again instead lead him with the knife a constant threat in his side. He was lead into the warehouse and was quite surprised at what he saw.

The nine men who had been kidnapped were scattered about the place engaged in various activities, three were laying on the floor playing cards, two seemed engaged in a debate about the virtues of gardening for beauty or for use in the kitchen, one was reading a book, two were sleeping on soft looking cushions and one was eating a sandwich speaking with a younger woman who giggled at what he was saying. None looked too harassed or terribly frightened by his captors arrival although they did immediately look over and quiet down somewhat. More than one had the traces of a bruise of two that seemed to be fading.

The quick look also showed Watson that as 'civilized' as it seemed in the warehouse none of these men wanted to be there. Each had a manacle about his ankle and a chain that lead to one of the metal beams that held the ceiling up. There were rugs on the concrete floor and cushions in reach of the chains if not for the locks many in Sherlock's network would love to stumble across such a hideout but it was a far cry from the accommodations these men were used to.

The woman excused herself from speaking with the man and rushed over to help the man although John wasn't struggling.

"Now really, I know he's not our dear Francis, but did you boys have to be so rough on the poor dear?" She scolded the man with the knife softly. John found he didn't like being called dear by this woman. He accepted that was Mrs. Hudson's term of endearment for him, but it sounded alien and off-kilter from this delicate woman's lips. She reached a dainty hand up and petted his temple awakening a pain he had been valiantly ignoring from his capture he'd assumed.

"It really is quite a magnificent bruise my dear." Her eyes wide in awe her perfect white teeth bit down gently on her soft pink lips, and John cringed inside while pulling his head away from her gentle yet painful touch.

"I'm sure it's nothing really." He said although his barely masked sarcasm did not escape the notice of his captor and the grip on his shirt tightened choking him slightly.

"Now, now, be nice brother mine. The good man's had a rough day; we can forgive him his less than gentlemanly behavior right now." She tapped the man's hand softly and he loosened his grip, the knife however was hidden from the woman's eyes and he dug it in a little harder.

She turned her sad doe eyes back to John. "Now really your behavior is almost expected after all everyone is reluctant at first. That's why I must insist on you retiring for the evening. Don't worry your brothers will be there soon." She smiled sweetly as though comforting him and patted his cheek softly but her finger tips still hit the bruises edge enough for it to sting sharply.

The man pulled him away and he glanced at the other captives for a moment, reassuring himself that they were all there and healthy. He wished he hadn't by the sorrowful looks he was giving him from behind the woman. She turned to return to the men and they rearranged their faces quickly to masks of social politeness, a mask adopted by those with money who had to attend the most boring of functions, he'd seen it on Sherlock's face before and John felt the man's absence suddenly. John wondered just how long it was going to take Sherlock to rally the Yarders to his GPS signal that had been transmitting before leaving 221B.

He was dragged through the doors into a second section of the warehouse and he was cold instantly. He hunched instinctively and the man chuckled. There was no form of insulation out here and he longed for his comfy sweaters and downy jacket the borrowed clothing was too thin to be of any use. He was dragged over to a wall of open doors, each seemed new with the metal still gleaming and the small windows at head level with bars they could only serve one purpose, cells. Someone had outfitted this half of the warehouse with cells, removed any insulation, and the closer the man managed to manhandle him the heavy duty locks looked bigger and bigger.

He struggled more even as he heard Sherlock in his head berating him for an idiot fighting without a plan was stupid. The man landed a stunning blow to the back of his head and easily pushed him into the little room. If his hands had been free he would have been able to reach out and press his elbows to the walls either side of him and with his back pressed against the wall he could touch the closed door with his feet. John took a moment to reassure himself that he was not claustrophobic and that this was not a cave. Still stunned he barely noticed as the man slid the knife between his hands and none too gently tugged it through the ropes a thin line cut across the side of his right wrist and he flinched violently the fight renewed slightly.

The man didn't pay any attention as he forced John's hands in front of him and pressed him to the back of the cell. John pulled but he was still too dazed to really be effective his eyes were focused on the blood welling up on his pale skin soaking into the loose cuff that belonged to a stranger's son. The doctor's mind was quietly reassuring him that the cut was not too serious and the purely British part of him was horrified that he had ruined a borrowed shirt. He was still entranced by the red flow when it was suddenly cut off by a dark frigid ring of black, he pulled back at the shock and managed to pull his eyes up to the man's face, but he could see no more than a shadow in the dark box. A second ring surrounded his other wrist and he tugged but went nowhere. There was a glint of a smirk and the man was moving away.


	3. Chapter 3 - Meeting the Brothers

Chapter 3 - Meeting the Brothers

John was certain he should yell after the man, even as the practical part of him screamed for him to stay silent he opened his mouth. "You won't get away with this." And gods it sounded so cliché he hated himself for a moment. The man didn't laugh though he simply let the door clang shut, the lock was turned and it resonated throughout the freezing metal cell all the way through the cuffs that had him bent slightly forward. He looked over his shoulder to the door and saw the man's face properly for the first time it wasn't surprising how normal it was, most criminals look normal a fact that John was starting to hate. The only thing truly distinctive feature might be his thick eyebrows. That was as far as he had to analyze when the faint orange light from the warehouse was cut off by a shutter clanging over the barred window and leaving John in total darkness.

_Alright, alone is better than dead._ _Come on soldier assess the situation, report!_ He commanded himself, and took a deep breath. _Caught, well done. Cold, insufficient layers, hypothermia a possible if left here too long. Can't do anything about it move on. Incapacitated. _ He pulled on the chain he couldn't see anymore and instead felt along it with his hands. _Hands are too close at the wrong height, intentional stress position. Standing leaves me pulled forward, not low enough to sit properly. So hunched in or kneeling. _John's face scrunched in distaste at the thought of kneeling._ Suck up your pride soldier which keeps you fighting fit longest?_ He didn't need to ask he knew and slowly allowed himself to sink to his knees and leaned forward into the wall his hands pulled just over his head his shoulder decided to twinge and tell him what a stupid plan this had been and that he should stop acting as bait when Sherlock obviously has other things he wants to finish before rescuing him.

_Not productive Soldier._ John shook himself and breathed deeply leaning his head against his forearms. His back was already tight and he tried to relax. It wasn't easy with his knee's already in pain and his shoulder screaming at him and his leg twinging and shaking. He flexed his cold fingers and closed his eyes. _Sherlock said they were based in London, so I'm in London. I'm not in Afghanistan._ He reminded himself, he hated the cold seeping in bone deep. It was too much like a place he didn't want to remember, the memories were too close to the surface because its anniversary was so near. _Therapy here I come, thanks a lot Sherlock. Sherlock is coming Soldier, keep calm and all that._ Even his internal pep-talk was failing.

The walls seemed to close in on him and he pressed his hands against the cold concrete to reassure himself that it wasn't a cave wall, the smooth coldness made him shiver but it reminded him he was in London.

"I'm in London." He muttered then added with a sureness he felt at the depth of his being "and Sherlock is coming."

He whispered it every few minutes and let his numb fingers run along the concrete. "I'm in London, and Sherlock is coming."

He knew he'd been there a few hours kneeling uncomfortably, his leg twitching his shoulder screaming all the way down his back and up his arm throbbing in numb fingers that couldn't recognize the pain he knew they must be in. He kept rubbing the concrete and forced himself into the present because it was so much better than getting lost in the past. His internal monologue kept trying to figure out why Sherlock wasn't there yet and his whispered words kept him from doubting. Sherlock was coming, and there was a reason it was taking so long. It was the only answer he would allow himself.

He heard the clang of the lock being disengaged and pulled his good leg under him pushing himself to his feet. He may accept kneeling was best for his body, but that didn't mean he didn't have his pride. The light rushed in from the door as he was still struggling to stand. He squinted against the intrusion as it stabbed at his eyes, hoping it was Sherlock in the doorway come to release them all and sigh dramatically at how useless John was while quickly picking the locked manacles the blogger couldn't.

The silhouette however was not the slim distinctive shape of his flatmate but the broad shoulders of the man who had put him here to start with. The man quickly pushed into the cell and was followed by a new man with much narrower shoulders but still broader than his much wished for detective. The skinny man was tall and sharp and everything about him made John want to cringe away, his soldiers mask snapped into place without a thought.

It was the larger man who reached him first with a strong fist he pulled him the rest of the way up and steadied him. John didn't allow himself to think for an instant it was an act of kindness. It was an act of expedience; they wanted him on his feet.

"So, not Francis, give us a name will you?" The big man demanded.

"Captain John Hamish Watson, 27345659." He said with a raised chin, head turned as much as possible leaning much of his weight against the wall, leg unsteady. He knew it wasn't a war zone, but it was a gut reaction. The right one it seemed since he was still standing.

"John doesn't really fit." The thin one grunted.

"Hamish might work, she likes the strange ones." The big one shrugged.

"He'll never pass for one of them, look at him." The skinny man sneered and poked a sharp finger into his wounded shoulder.

John recoiled and bit his tongue to keep himself silent. The man grinned and jabbed at the abused shoulder again.

"Still might have a little fun." The cruel scraggy man smirked.

"Not if he passes muster." The wider fellow said pushing the digging fingers away from John. He put a meaty hand under John's chin and forced his captive audience to look at him. "There are two rules. Treat Sister as the Lady she is and you won't find yourself in trouble. And always act as a Gentleman should."

John had a momentary pause, he really wished Sherlock had been the bait, he would have understood everything that was happening and already escaped. At the moment he couldn't be entirely sure if he was even in London. _No Soldier you're in London. You're in London and Sherlock is coming._

"I'm in London, and Sherlock is coming." He whispered barely making a noise lips hardly moving.

The scrawny man shouldered past his counterpart and glared. "Who's coming?" he demanded.

John looked up looked at the tall man with dead certain eyes. "I'm in London, and Sherlock is coming." He repeated calmly.

The man didn't look worried. "Is he at the other end of your little transmitter?" He asked with a sick little smile. "Because that may be in London, but you're not." He laughed at John startled look.

"Yes that was unfortunate." The larger man sighed. "We must deal with that infraction; it's not Gentlemanly to spy on your hosts you know."

Without any further stalling a foot quickly stuck his good leg and had John falling suddenly jerking his hands up and wrenching mercilessly at his shoulder. He hunched forward protecting his head from the sudden blows that rained down on him. He grunted with them but did not cry out. It was over relatively quickly but left him bruised and gasping. The door was closed and locked but mercifully the barred window was left uncovered. He focused on breathing shallowly and took stock of his injuries.

His shoulder was the worst and he wasn't surprised. His good leg was slightly less pained than his bad which was irritating seeing as the good leg was the only one to sustain any injury. The beating had been careful, professional even, not striking anything vital just bruising mostly his upper back and ribs. The thin man with fists as sharp as his fingers he'd managed a punch or two to the starburst of scar tissue. John pressed his face into the sleeve of the high collared white shirt and wondered where the jacket he'd been wearing before he'd woken up in that small office. When he was certain his face wasn't damp any more he sighed and relaxed as much as he could manager, he needed to rest as much as possible. He shivered again and closed his eyes.

He was aware of the clinking and clanging of other doors, but there was no talking so he just listened. He only heard seven doors close and then silence for some time. He wondered if he'd missed the other two or if not everyone was alone, or perhaps the other two weren't coming. The lights turned off dropping him into complete darkness. He sucked in a harsh breath and pressed his fingers back into the concrete reminding himself viciously _London, London, London._

"Hamish?" Came a soft call and he blinked in awareness. "Hamish, are you alright?"

"I'm John, 'sa perfectly good name no matter what those goons think." He managed to sound irritated. _ Good Soldier, hold onto that._

There was a chuckle of two. "Glad to hear you're still perky." Came a different voice.

"Yes, yes all that's fine, but not the point." This voice was hurried. "Look Hamish, John, whatever, who are you exactly? They said Francis was coming and although I'm glad he's not here are you going to cause any trouble?"

"Ignore him." The first voice snapped.

"He raises a good point though." John managed to stop the fight about to break out; he could tell these men were tight with the tension of their confinement. "Francis is safe by the way, if you're Vinicent Cartwright. He's worried about you of course."

The hurried voice, Vinicent's voice called out. "You're certain he's safe?"

"Safer than the Crown Jewels, I trust the man in charge of his safety." As much as it bothered Sherlock he couldn't help but trust Mycroft when he said he would keep the man safe.

"Are you with the police?" The first voice asked, sounding troubled by this.

"Not really, although I've worked with them in the past." John sighed. He really didn't want to talk about himself, he should be gathering intelligence on the situation but there was no way the men would talk to him until they vetted him. He'd worked with their type too, and they couldn't be rushed.

"So, not to be blunt, you're not one of us." Came the second voice.

"No I'm not money." He gritted his teeth. "Terribly sorry to sully your five-star prison with my common self." He let his frustration show and didn't like it.

The second voice sputtered and Vinicent chuckled dryly. "No John, it's not that, not that at all it's just, the Brothers they rather expect a bit of a show you know. Bowing over hands and treating Sister like a queen. We're rather concerned you'll not pass muster, and we don't know what that means. But if your introduction was like our own we may conclude it will be more of the same."

John shrugged and regretted it immediately. "I'm in London and Sherlock is coming." He whispered to himself, then to the men. "I survived Buckingham Palace with a man dressed in a bed sheet, seems the best course of action is no reaction."

There was silence and John imagined they were following his advice by not reacting and snorted. "Let's do a roll call here. John, that's me – yup I'm here. Vinicent Cartwrite yup he's here too. Carlyle Truett, Thaddeus Rosters, Mercurial Simmonstone, Sebastion VonHuber, Caractacus Rogersteine, Tristen Barenthine, Nordstrom Earnestine, and Malachi Dresdenton."

"Tris and Thad are still in the 'living room.'" Vinicent managed. "How'd you know us?"

"Well, you've been missed at home." John said. "And the best is set to find you. Honestly I thought he'd be here by now, but the Brothers Slim and Slam managed to find my GPS transmitter. So he'll have to find us the old fashioned way."

"You're a rescue plan gone wrong then?" The second voice sighed.

"Pretty much." John admitted.

"Just keep your head down and act like we do. Don't give Sister a reason to send you away to early, or Brother Slim and Brother Slam, as you call them, will give you more of what they already gave you. Always where covered by your clothes so Sister's fantasy is protected." The first voice advised with a knowing tone that John didn't question. "And try and sleep, did they leave you a blanket?"

"Don't know. Probably not, they didn't seem too charitable, and seemed a little that peeved I'm not the expected Francis."

"Look near the front, that's where they drop it."

"Yea, sure I'll do that." John said resisting the urge to roll his eyes and at the same time not wanting to announce his predicament.

A fourth voice gasped. "They left you up?" it was a small voice, young, shy and frightened.

John took a moment to think through what he knew of the victims. "Carlyle?" He guessed, he was glad to hear the young man's voice. His mother had been distraught as he was without his medication. John agreed, hyperthyroidism wasn't normally terribly worrisome but the lad had had a thyroid storm before and considering the stress he was under being kidnapped it wasn't outlandish to think him at risk for another, especially without his medication.

"Yessir?" The voice was hesitant.

"You got a blanket in there?"

"Yessir."

"Good. You keep warm and don't worry about me, I'm army trained, this is a day off during basic training and a Sunday's jog nowadays, you understand?"

"Nosir." He managed. "But thanks."

"Hey, I invaded Afghanistan, this is probably one of the less crazy situations I've been in." He smiled, thinking of Sherlock's outburst.

He got more than one chuckle out of that. "Well I'm beat, don't know about you fine Gentlemen but I'm for bed in these lovely feather beds, terribly soft, might be a bit much for me."

The chuckles were half-hearted and at the same time there was a shifting from the other cells and it seemed everyone had dropped off in moments. John pressed his face back into his arm and let himself drift as much as he could. Whenever he started to fall asleep though, he inevitably slid too far and jerked his arms as he fell pulling himself back awake. So he focused on the mystery of Mrs. Hudson and her rather incredible reflexes on the staircase.


	4. Chapter 4 - Inspection and Inspiration

**AN -** John's introduction.

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Chapter 4 - Inspection and Inspiration

Several hours later he was vacillating between the possibilities of her being a Mycroft plant or her actually being Mummy Holmes in disguise taking care of her aloof son whether he wanted it or not. Both aspects were frightening in that they were so very much like the Holmes family that he really had no qualms about believing either of them. He really must insist on meeting Mummy as soon as he gets out of here just to assure himself he hadn't been pining over the asexual man in front of his mother. He shuddered, she had given him such advice and had even a few conspiratorial winks. He needed to make sure the woman was just the sweet woman who baked lovely cookies and wasn't a Holmes, or a Holmes plant. If she were he wasn't sure what he could believe in anymore.

The lights turned on again and he blinked the clinking and clanking of the other seven doors happened in a relatively quick manner, orderly. He managed to be standing before the fourth one was opened it was six minutes after the seventh door opened that his own was pulled free. The broader man was by himself he didn't waste time talking instead he was quickly in and a swift kick to the bruise on his good leg had John back on the cell floor trying not to curse. A chill ring made clicked tight around his 'good legs' ankle under the pants leg but luckily on top of the sock, the ring was attached to the chain in the man's hand. A key was produced and John slumped as his hands were released.

The fist in his shirt had him pulling himself up quickly, slipping into soldier mode as he always did when he had to move no matter the consequence. A subtle wave had him leading the way back to the 'living room' he was made to stop near the edge where his chain was locked to an unused support beam. He watched the men who were studiously not looking at him, although the odd glance assured him they hadn't abandoned him. He wished they would stop, they weren't very good at not being noticed, so the next eye he caught he managed a head shake and the eyes stopped darting to him.

The wider brother had disappeared behind the beam and John didn't want to risk trying to find him instead he stood in a relaxed parade rest, trying to maintain his feet. He didn't think sitting was in his best interest. With his hands behind him he turned the bloody cuff under so the blood was hidden, then did the same with the clean cuff so as not to be noticeable. The shirt was large enough on him that the sleeves were still long enough and he was glad, he assumed blood was not to be shown to a 'Lady.' The doe-eyed woman was speaking with one of the men who bowed politely over her hand before she flitted to the next. It seemed she was greeting them all each made a show of showing her a great deal of respect and soft elegant words. She seemed to be pleased by each of their words and as she left them they seemed relieved.

He remembered the rules and wondered how he could manage to hold his own. _Think Soldier, what's your strength? Watching crap telly and getting kidnapped. Accomplished one of those already haven't you Soldier._ John thought it unfair that his inner officer was making fun of him. Mrs. Hudson even with all her mystery never made fun of him. Sometimes made him sit through a cookery program or costume drama he had no interest in but never made fun of him. Suddenly he had an insight and it took all of his soldier mask not to grin as the woman known as Sister turned her big eyes to him and made her way over to his desolate corner. _Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. The war veteran makes his entrance stage left on today's installment of costume drama no one should ever watch because they are awful and predictable and booring._ He briefly wondered why he sounded so much like Sherlock in his own mind.

"Oh my, our newest guest, so sorry to keep you waiting." She batted her eyelashes softly at him. "You see we were expecting our newest brother Francis and were quite surprised by your unannounced arrival, Hamish was it?"

"Captain John Hamish Watson." He said strongly almost amused at the wide eyes from the other men who were so very, very shocked by his correction of Sister. He coughed slightly.

"I apologize for my rather inappropriate demeanor milady, but these are circles far above my usual haunts. I didn't mean to intrude really, but times are tough for " He looked off to the left counting a full fifteen seconds before shaking himself and looking down as though embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I missed a moment there, I should excuse myself."

Sister looked at him blankly for a moment, and he wondered if he overplayed his intentions suddenly her soft eyes glinted with a madness for just a moment and she smiled past him to her Brother he suspected and nodded.

"My poor Captain, come in out of the cold, you really must rest I insist." She said holding out a dainty hand gloved in white.

"You are too kind milady." He clicked his heels slightly and bobbed over the hand the move was unnatural but it seemed so military that she just giggled.

"Call me Sister." She smiled and beckoned him to follow her. He did and wasn't surprised when he moved past the limits of his chain. A quick glance showed the end in the hand of the thin brother a sour look on his face. It seemed as though he really had hoped John wouldn't pass muster.

Once central with the other men he nodded to each and was introduced. It seemed voice one belonged to Malachi and voice two was Sebastian. He nodded to each and firmly shook the hands of those near enough to reach him at the end of their chains, his eyes promising rescue. When he was introduced to the shy Carlyle he pulled him slightly closer and looked him from head to toe with a doctor's eye and frowned without meaning to.

"Is something wrong Captain?" Sister asked her eyes strangely blank as though deciding whether he was behaving or not.

"My apologies Sister, it's the doctors training taking over." He bowed his head slightly. "Impossible to turn off regardless of the company I keep. I find myself determined to find disease everywhere I look." He sighed wearily.

"Oh my, is our dear Carlyle quite well?" She swept to the young man's side and pressed a still gloved hand to his forehead. "Is it contagious?" She suddenly backed away.

"No, no Sister, I'm quite certain." He clapped his hand to the younger man's shoulder and grinned. "It seems to be a vitamin deficiency, some radishes a helping or two of cabbage he'll be right as rain. See the poor lad's got bags under his eyes, the subtle shake to his hands, his hair slightly dull, and the slight swelling of the eyelids, all signs of deficiency but nothing more serious." He made eye-contact with the blond man and raised his eyebrow. He mightn't be able to get him his medication but he'd do what he could. The vegetables were far from adequate treatment, but it was doable.

"Oh Captain, you are a wonder. A doctor as well, how fortunate for our dear Carlyle you were here. My brothers will be certain that dinner includes cabbage and radishes." She fluttered to an armchair which was situated so none of the men could reach it but still remained in the center of the action. "Come sit near me Captain, I simply must pick your brain."

John wanted to groan but put on the smile he used for superior officers and nodded. "It would be my pleasure my lady, I mean, Sister." He limped over to her as far as his chain would allow and lowered himself gently on a flat cushion.

The men watched from their positions and quietly started small talk allowing the area to feel almost like a small party. John wasn't fooled for an instant each eye was on him as his ability to mingle in this 'gentlemen's' club and entertain Sister was tested. He sighed heavily and rubbed his bad leg subtly, intending to be caught.

"Oh my Captain, are you quite alright?"

"Oh it's nothing Sister, old soldier and his various acquired injuries, nothing to worry about." He nodded comfortingly patting his leg as though dismissing it.

"You're not so old Hamish." She said softly and blushed. "Still it must be a fascinating story, what happened to my poor Captain's leg? Something we can't fix with cabbage I suppose." She sighed wistfully.

"If it were as easy as that I'd be quite glad." He nodded sadly and let his soldiers blank mask fall into place. He counted a full twenty seconds before he shivered slightly. "It's not a pleasant story Sister. I wouldn't wish to upset you." She looked down slightly.

"You'll find I'm not the type to faint away at a tale of a little woe." She said harshly, and he knew he'd be telling her the story despite his best efforts. He wished he had the talents of Sherlock and would be able to pull a convincing story from the air. But he knew he was a terribly actor the only choice he really had was the truth and he was loathed to speak of it to anyone least of all his captor along with her collection of gentlemen.

"If you insist Sister, however I must insist, if you wish me to stop at any moment, you need but wave me off." He held her eyes until she nodded, the glint gone once more and she smiled softly at him settling back in her chair with a glass of water.

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**AN - ** Yes John's about to tell you that story. And Yes I'm a jerk for stopping the chapter here. I promise I didn't do it intentionally, but there's just no better break and it's too long for one chapter.


	5. Chapter 5 - John Tells All

Chapter 5 - John Tells All

"I served in Afghanistan." He started licking at his suddenly dry lips eyes darting to the glass but averted his eyes as she tightened her grip slightly. "Now most think of that land and remember tales of the burning sun and the unforgiving summers, and they are. Sometimes in the summer you'd think to jump in the fire would cool you down. I treated many a soldier for heat stroke, hallucinations, and even temporary madness brought down by the heat alone. The summers are hell. What people don't think of is the winters. In a country full of sun, sand, and heat it surprises most that the winters are just as brutal. Even crueler than the Afghani sun is it's the winter nights, especially if you weren't at a base, fingers were at risk of amputation if you didn't take care and often fires were too dangerous to give away you're position to enemies hidden in the mountains and caves that surrounded you no matter where you went.

"It was during the dead of winter when my convoy was attacked. I was in an ambulance of sorts, truly it was just where we had medical supplies only since we couldn't afford a truck that carried nothing but wounded. I was with a patient who would most likely lose his leg to shrapnel and burns. He was only nineteen. So very young and ..." he paused and could see O'Riley's face so clearly he took a deep breath. "There's only so much you can do in the field and we were hoping to get him to the nearest field hospital before I had to amputate with less than ideal conditions.

"But there was a great sound a wind I could feel through the canvas of the truck. Everything shifted and moved. There was a minute of absolute chaos and when the world righted itself the truck in front of us was destroyed. The enemy had triggered a landslide and behind us was the other medical supplies truck. They wanted the supplies. It was imperative we not be there when they got to the trucks. We were army, we were armed, and we weren't stupid. We could have made a stand but we were too far out to expect any reinforcements, they had the high ground and we were cut off from much of our supplies. The radio barely crackled in the cab. The driver was out and helping me move O'Riley's stretcher, we loaded bandages, medication, and even the bone saw."

Sister gasped hand flying to her mouth. "I should stop it doesn't get nicer." John said in a rush.

"No!" Sister demanded. "I'll have nightmares if I don't know how you made it home, Captain." She insisted and pulled her feet up under her on the chair.

"We ran. The convoy had turned back and was trying to make it back to base they'd asked for reinforcements. The driver and I were focused entirely on making it to some sort of cover before the attackers made it to the truck. We hoped if they saw it abandoned they would pillage it and leave the truck as its front had been badly damaged and wouldn't crank at all. We weren't fast enough. They were at the truck and we were out in the open. A shot in the dust and we stopped. There was no way for two men carrying a third to make it out of the open with fifteen guns pointed at us. So we found ourselves in the tender care of the Taliban. They allowed us to carry O'Riley but they covered him with so much of our cargo the lad was almost crushed. It seemed to take days to reach the caves they pulled us into. They were dark and cold and as soon as we were inside hands removed our vests, our boots, took the supplies even the stretcher and we were left in our socks shivering with poor O'Riley.

"They bagged us and had us carrying O'Riley for ages. Eventually we were left in a freezing cave and they allowed me to see to O'Riley. His leg was entering necrosis; already dying you understand, by this point it had to come off or he would die. I pleaded with them to allow me the equipment and morphine. They gave me a packet of antibiotics and the bone saw. With the driver's help to hold him down I managed the parody of surgery. We used fire to cauterize it."

John closed his eyes against the scream that echoed in his head and tried to shake it off he felt nauseous at the rapt attention Sister was paying him enthralled by his tale. Things he hadn't managed to tell his therapist although she knew the bare bones of the story, and he was pouring them out to the woman responsible for his captivity once again. He coughed dryly and licked at his cracked lips, but Sister simply took a sip of her drink and raised an eyebrow, the message was clear he was to talk and would not be granted a drink until she was satisfied.

"We were there huddled together for three freezing days before the driver made his attempt to run. I couldn't leave my patient and the antibiotics were hardly provided regularly. Just getting water into him was a herculean task. The driver made it out of the caves but not far, he was shot. The noise of it echoed loudly in our cell of a cave. They dragged him back to us and he was still alive. They'd shot him in the same leg that O'Riley had just had removed and left him to my care. They didn't give me more antibiotics mind. So I faced a dilemma, give the medicine to the patient who needed it more or the one who had a better chance at survival. I was torn. The driver made up my mind for me he refused to take them.

"Another day passed where I had my attention split between my two patients and then the sound of helicopters overhead gave us hope. We were grabbed by our captors and bagged again. They dragged O'Riley, while the driver managed to mostly limp his way along in their arms; I was useless to both of them. We were outside and I had wondered if I'd ever be outside alive again so it was something to be thankful for, but only for a moment the bitter wind cut deeply and we were made to kneel. I wasn't aware of why we were there and apparently I shifted in a way that made them wary of my mobility and a knife was dug deep into my thigh again the same leg as the other two." He gestured at his bad leg. "They were negotiating, our lives for time for them to crawl away. When an hour passed there was a cry to my left and O'Riley had been kicked so he tipped down the mountain into the arms of our fellows, however I didn't know that at the time, I'm certain I yelled some rather unrepeatable things to our captors, which earned me a swift heel into the knife wound. Another hour and the same fate met the driver.

"So the last few and myself were left I felt a gun pressed into the back of my neck and it seemed to freeze itself to my skin. It was so cold and I was so cold it was as though we were one entity. I accepted I was dead at that moment."

If John had seen his face he would have cringed, he wasn't wearing his mask anymore the face before the room was naked and devoid at the same time, a memory of a moment with no fear, no reason and no hope, and it was terrifying.

"I was frozen inside but they had me on my feet and moving I felt the closed space of the caves and fought. I figured since I was dead I may as well die outside as I wanted instead of in a hole never to be found. They didn't kill me though. They pulled me deep into the caves and there was a new explosion far behind me, they'd sealed off the entrance. They pulled me for days it seemed, we never stopped. I was bleeding and blind, disoriented and dead. I don't know how long it was but eventually they stopped and stuffed me into a crevice along the cave's wall. It didn't go anywhere mind just a crack in the earth in which I couldn't breathe, could barely move, certainly couldn't get free of it on my own and the rocks dug into my thigh cruelly. When they pulled me free I felt near mad with the coffin like space. My fingers were bloody from trying to claw my way out."

He found himself coughing as he remembered the dust that choked him and the inability to breath had plagued him in that tiny prison. He looked away from Sister who seemed impatient for him to continue but still offered him no water. He made certain not to meet the eyes of any of the other men. He was telling this story to keep them safe, but he didn't think he could stand seeing the pity in their eyes. He managed to build some spit in his dry mouth and swallowing painfully he continued imagining himself brave and finally telling his therapist as she had wanted him to do months ago. He wished he had, just so he wouldn't feel so exposed doing it now in front of his captors and nine strangers.

"They brought me all the way to the surface on the far side of the mountain we'd been in. They argued over what to do with me then. I knew enough to understand they wondered if I was worth saving or not. Turns out that a doctor is a terrible thing to waste and they decided to keep me. I didn't want to be kept and I'm not ashamed to say I was frightened. I could imagine my life stuck in caves lost to my homeland reported presumed dead and forced to treat the people who were out killing not only my countrymen but their own countrymen too. I panicked. Pulled from their loosened grip and ran blindly away from the voices.

"There was a shot the noise made me flinch and free from their hands I pulled the bag from my head and headed back into the caves. I didn't know they were set to close off this end too. I was barely inside when it rocked with explosion. I didn't stop running. I wandered around those caves for endless black hours and almost wished for the bag so I could pretend that was why I couldn't see. When I saw light I almost ran straight to it. But chances were it was the Taliban again so I pulled back and slid into one of the many crevasses and reminded myself I could pull out of it when I wanted I wasn't wedged in past where I wanted to be.

"I turned away when the first light entered the path I was on and held my breath. The first light past me and the second and I thought myself safe when hands pulled at me and I fought them. It took a moment to recognize the troops were American. The same who had managed to get O'Riley and the driver. They bandaged my leg in the dark and took me back through the dugout entrance they had spent two days getting through. Once out the other side and in the light they found the other injury. The shot hadn't missed, but I was in shock and hadn't even noticed the wound and so hadn't been able to tell them about it in the dark caves. I was awake just long enough to see a truck with the red cross on it and then I passed out. I woke up several times I'm told but I remember nothing until four days later when recovering in hospital." He sighed and looked away. "Thus the story of Captain Watson and his limp concludes."

"Stabbed and shot in the leg, oh my poor Captain." Sister's eyes were wide and it wasn't with sympathy but excitement, John pretended not to notice.

"No, no the shot was to the shoulder, Sister. It was actually the worse of the two wounds affecting the bone. The stabbing caused the damage in the leg although I'll be the first to admit most of it is psychosomatic. There is a lot of guilt I cannot shed for being so useless to my brothers in that cave, and it only grew when I believed them killed on the mountains side."

"So they didn't die then?" Sister asked head inclined demanding an answer.

"O'Riley very nearly did. He needed several more surgeries and will probably never recover as much as we could hope. They had to amputate more just so he could be properly fitted for a prosthetic, my work was shoddy and they needed more precision. The driver was well in a short time. But he signed on for another rotation as soon as he could and was killed three weeks into his newest assignment."

Several of the men were trying not to seem as they were listening aware that the story they had just heard was a baring of John's soul and not willingly offered but sacrificed for their benefit. They had grown silent not long after he had started. He shifted painfully on his cushion and wondered how long he had dragged out the story. _I'm in London and Sherlock is coming._ He reminded himself. He just needed to keep Sister entertained long enough for Sherlock to find him so she didn't demand another player for her sick court of gentlemen callers.

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**AN - I'm so sorry John. So so sorry.**


	6. Chapter 6 - Dinner and a Memory

**AN - This is a not very nice chapter. The warnings are for a reason. **

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Chapter 6 - Dinner and a Memory

Sister stood suddenly. "Oh my, the time has flown. I'm afraid dear Captain you have quite made us miss dinner." She pouted. "And poor Carlyle really can't afford it with his condition. It's quite remiss of you as a doctor to keep your patient from his medication. Brother." She called. "Please take the Captain to his room to rest while we have a late dinner." She smiled sweetly at the skinny brother.

_They're clearly not blood related._ The Sherlock part of his mind cried out._ Thank you for that Sherlock, how does that tell me anything useful? Honestly John, why would they insist on calling each other brother and sister if they aren't? I don't care I've just got to keep them entertained until you and your massive intellect come and free us and let me book a series of appointment that lasts through next August. Honestly John, you used it yourself earlier, your brothers in arms perhaps. They're hardly soldiers Sherlock. And I'm hardly Sherlock Soldier._ John thought it might be a bad sight to hit himself to shut up the voices so he tried to keep his face as blank as possible.

His limp was more pronounced when he was helped to his feet by the sharp fingers of the tall brother and guided back to the freezing cells chain tugging gently on his leg with every off-kilter step. When the door clicked between them and the 'living area' he found himself spun suddenly and slammed viciously into the wall. He wanted to fight. He clamped down on the instinct and then the immediate demand of the adrenalin rushing in his blood to run if he wouldn't fight. Through sheer will he kept himself still as his hands were pulled behind him and his wrists were encircled with the cold metal of handcuffs. He barely felt the metal anklet being removed. He was spun back and was forced to look up into the tall man's cold brown eyes.

"Now, that was hardly an appropriate story for a Lady." The man hissed with an evil grin.

"Perhaps not, but the lady insisted and far be it from me to deny her." John said with a shrug of his good shoulder.

"As a gentleman you should be able to steer the conversation away from such subjects." He man gripped Johns chin with vice-like fingers.

"As a gentleman you should cease such pointless conversation and do what you've already planned. Otherwise you're simply playing coy, which is loathsome." John hated his leg yes, but at this moment he hated his mouth much more and really wished it would shut up. Or find water, he was terribly thirsty. He was hungry too but it was more of a bother than a need in comparison to his thirst.

"Now Captain, that's hardly an attitude towards the host that befits a guest, especially an unexpected guest imposing himself on the host at that." Brother slim shook his head and sighed. "I suppose I'll have to find an out of the way place for you to cool your heels until the hostess is willing to forgive your indiscretions."

He was propelled back through the doors silently and found himself completely unobserved as Sister played host setting out a meal for her 'guests.' Brother Slim had him up and in the tiny office in a matter of moments. He had a moment to be thankful that it was warmer than his cell at least when he was yanked backwards by his hair until he bent at an awkward angle. A hanky was shoved in his mouth and before he could spit it out a tie was slipped between his lips and pulled tight he gagged slightly but his hair was released and he spun away from the tall man who aimed an ugly smile at him.

"We shouldn't disturb dinner you understand." Were the only words he got as the man moved lightening quick and snagged his arm. Two steps and a quick motion and he was being shoved into the metal cupboard. It was half-filled with unopened bags of cement and he was quickly jammed in beside them then several of the new bags were pressed up against him pushing him tightly against the cool back of the metal while pinning his feet and legs in place. He struggled violently in the tiny space but soon the cement made it to his shoulders and he had no space to move in.

His eyes were wild as he jerked sporadically unable to stop he looked away in shame at the laughter that came from Brother Slim. The thin fingers reached out unerringly and forced him to turn towards the severe face of his tormentor. Having demanded his attention the brother pulled out a black cloth shopping bag. John cried out into the gag and shook his head violently, but in a moment his head was covered and he was back in the cave in Afghanistan dying in a crevasse, blind and bleeding. He didn't even notice the last few bags of concrete that pinned his head in place or the cupboard being forced closed and locked, the desk pushed up against the doors to keep them from popping open.

John didn't want to be here. He didn't want to hear their voices again; he didn't want to live his life at their beck and call. He cried out, hoping for the rescue his brothers had gotten. Shoved off a cliff was fine as long as he was not here. He would rather die, and he did not want to die. He didn't. He really, really didn't. _Please God, don't let me die._ He couldn't find himself to be ashamed of his tears. He could feel their hands forcing him forward pushing him deep into this coffin to be pulled out only when useful. A tool put on a shelf. In the dark he couldn't distinguish was that a breath of air? Was it a knife to cut him again? Was it a gun about to end him? Was he useless to them? Was he useful? Would he have to work for them? _Please God, don't let me die._ He whimpered and twitched in the cupboard and lost himself completely in his captivity.

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**I don't think I've ever loathed a character as much as I dispise Slim. My poor John, PTSD sucks, and I'm a horrible person.  
****I'msorry I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry. **


	7. Chapter 7 - Wake Up, Captain

**AN - This is pretty short, but I wanted to get you past that awful cliffy.**

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Chapter 7 - Wake Up, Captain

John Watson ceased to exist in that darkness; there was only memory and fear. He was beyond himself, so when the cave started to shift around him all of his fear was known, the cave was falling around him, he was going to die buried in Afghanistan alone and useless. He cried out in the muffled darkness. Then hands grabbed him and pulled and he screamed. They had come for him and he couldn't wrestle himself free. Somehow his feet were free and he kicked out regardless of the pain coming from his stab wound. He hit the ground pinning his hands under his body in his panic he managed to back himself into a wall. Hyper sensitive any noise received a blind kick. He managed to connect but his foot was caught and he curled in on himself defeated and terrified.

The bag was ripped unceremoniously from his head and he cast his eyes about the cave pupils blown wide and still not seeing. The gag was yanked viciously from his mouth. He screamed angrily at the dust covered cave dweller who was tormenting him. He wondered what he had said to provoke such a look of confusion and anger. When he was left alone suddenly, John pressed himself against the wall with his shoulder and rubbed his forehead against it trying to calm himself down.

_LondonLondonLondonLondon._ His mind chanted at him.

There was a noise and he jerked to meet it, the man was familiar, but he'd never been in a cave in Afghanistan. That's right, Brother Slam, his brain provided.

"Back with us, Hamish?" The man questioned cautiously keeping his distance.

"I'm in London." John rasped. "And Sherlock is coming."

"Right, of course there's the Captain Sister wants to come down for breakfast." He nodded and walked over to John helping him softly to his feet taking some of his weight. "Brother was slightly peeved with you last night huh? Still it was a bit much of him." The man said gently smoothing down the ruined shirt as best he could.

John pulled away from the hands weakly but couldn't and the man simply finished his task before decisively removing the handcuffs from doctor's bloodied and bruised wrists. John looked at them in surprise. He knew he'd been fighting but it hadn't occurred to him the damage he could inflict.

"Come along Hamish, Sister's waiting, and she can get so impatient." The man gave John a gentle push, but John managed to stop and turn to the large man a question on his lips. "Go on then, I don't bite." The man encouraged.

"There must be a toilet. Somewhere I can clean up?" John indicated his wrists and sweat stained shirt, hoping that the fact he wished to wash the tear stains from his face was ignored. As awful as he felt he wanted to hold to the pretense that he still had his pride. The man could easily force him down those stairs and chain him with the rest it wouldn't be difficult with John as weak as he was just then, but the man just nodded softly and put a large hand on his shoulder.

He led him out of the office and just to the left instead of down to the 'living area.' There was a small toilet where he let John have five minutes to himself.

After relieving himself John set the water running he made himself drink slowly and then let the cool water pour stingingly over his injured wrists. He pulled off the ill-fitting and ruined top shirt and tore strips from his undershirt to wrap the wounds; satisfied that he'd managed as well as he could with the given circumstances, he pulled the sweat-stained garment back on and tucked it in as neatly as he could manage. He washed his face thoroughly before an impatient knock had him turning off the tap, straightening his back allowing the soldiers mask to fall back in place, and walking shakily out the door before he could be dragged out. The larger Brother merely placed a guiding hand on his shoulder and took him back down towards the 'living area' where the others were waiting anxiously.

"My, my Captain, how absolutely dreadful you look. I do hope you're feeling alright? Up to some breakfast at least." Sister said oozing false sympathy while her malicious eyes eagerly soaked up his weary form.

"Bad nights plague old soldiers like me." John rasped. "Nothing serious milady." He tilted his head respectfully. "I wouldn't say no to a spot of breakfast." He tried to smile but he really was an awful actor, the words came out but they fell flat.

Brother steered him to one of the pallets on the floor and once he was seated the chain slicked shut around his ankle making him shiver.

"Hamish is too reserved to worry you Sister dear, but he has had a rough night." He announced. "He should rest as much as possible today, I'm afraid our Brother may have caused the good Captain a nightmare or two with his questions."

Sister's eyes grew wide as she placed a plate with a slice of toast and a bowl of porridge on it in front of John. "Oh Captain, how rude of him. I shall make certain he knows the price of his unwanted questions on you, don't you worry at all." She said soothingly.

"Sister is too kind." John managed meekly eating a spoonful of the bland cereal thankful his stomach didn't reject it. He took a bite of the toast and broke into a body shaking cough. Sister took the plate in a rush to sit near him and bash his back with her palm to 'help' him breathe again but really just slammed into his already bruised back making him wince. "Thank you." He managed once he could take a breath again. The plate was gone though as was his chance at a breakfast.

"Lay down Captain, I insist." Sister demanded and John complied. His eyes closed of their own accord blocking out the concerned looks of his fellow captives who watched him openly unlike last night.

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**AN - It only now occurs to me that the chapter is called wake up, but it ends with John going to sleep. I'd change it but it kind of amuses me now.**


	8. Chapter 8 - Entertain Me, Story Teller

Chapter 8 - Entertain Me, Story Teller

He jerked awake with a half aborted yell, probably a Farsi curse. He cast his eyes about and Sister was watching him closely. He wondered if he'd spoken in his sleep, but she didn't look gleeful just attentive so he decided that he hadn't, if only for his prides sake.

"You slept right through lunch." Sister informed him softly.

John merely nodded. "Apologies, Sister." He gave her a forced smile. "I must have been more tired than I thought."

"Never mind Mercurial was just reading to us, but I've tired of the classics." She announced. "I'd much rather learn how my dear Captain decided the army of all places was a suitable career choice."

John merely nodded; this story was easy enough to tell.

"It's not much of a story to be honest Sister. Rather boring actually." John allowed himself to face his entire audience this time. "I was young and my mother was dying. I found that I wanted nothing more than to be a man like the one who was working to save her. He failed, but his passion lit a new path for me to take. I was going to be a doctor. I was going to make a difference and save people. Soon enough I was reading medicine at Kings, but my mother was gone and the hospital was a frightfully clean place. I was still young and wanted more. I was a prime candidate for recruitment officer. So off I was to the army, to save lives, travel the world, and have an adventure. It was a perfect fit for a young man off to discover himself in the wide world."

The woman pouted. "Not terrible I suppose, but not very exciting either." She admitted with a huff, lying back in her armchair. "What of your medals? Surely you received one or two, you were in a war after all?"

Thaddeus looked as though he would interrupt but at a severe eyebrow from John merely rearranged himself quietly.

"The most interesting story from my medals comes from the very early days of my deployment. Honestly, it was pure dumb luck that means I'm lucky enough to sit here now versus being scattered in small bits all over an Afghani market.

"We were patrolling, rather, I was being introduced as a doctor by our translator and we were walking through a market where we were well liked and well received. There was a whole gaggle of children following us saying 'ershees' which I was told meant chocolate. Much later I found it was a mispronunciation of the ghastly American chocolate "Hershey's bar." Still several of the men were pulling chocolates from their pockets to appease the children when all I had were vitamins and band-aids. To say I was unpopular was an understatement, the children avoided me completely. That was until I saw a cut needing some attention and basically demanded they translator bring the oblivious child to me.

"I sat down right there in the middle of the dusty market and cleaned the arm and stitched it in front of an enraptured group of little boys who thought stitches were the most fascinating thing ever to happen. Soon the boys were dragging less than enthusiastic patients to me and my spot on the ground. And when I started giving shots too they thought me a god, or a devil, the translator pretended ignorance at my questions for clarification. So there I sat holding clinic hours on a dust road when along comes a car. I pick up my bag and the child I'd been tending and move to the side of a cart selling kufta when the car decides to stop and park right where I'd been sitting. I call out to the driver who was jogging away when there was chaos and everyone started running. I stopped and looked at the car properly. It was filled with explosives.

"The driver running away was a suicide bomber who'd gotten cold feet and decided to let the bomb go off without him inside it. That didn't mean it wasn't still ticking. Without thinking I was inside the car looking at all the wires and plastic coke bottles filled with liquids. I had never seen an IED properly before this and our training for the most part is: avoid, contain, call the experts. So here I was ignoring all my training, climbing right in there with the bomb is not avoiding it, I didn't even try to contain it, and to be honest I didn't even know who to call on my walkie at this point. So there I am sat inside a bomb and I see this little white egg timer. I figure in for a penny in for a pound and pulled the timer out and climbed out of the car.

"It seemed my patrol hadn't been as absorbed as I had, they had called the experts and blocked off the area quite efficiently. They were yelling at me to get out of there so I walked over timer still in hand. The experts were almost there I was told, get down they yelled and pushed me down behind a building. The experts arrive decked out in heavy armor determined to save this troop friendly market and demand to see the idiot who got a good look at the mechanism. Realizing I was the idiot I stood up and held out the timer it dinged and everyone dove to the ground. I just stood there stupidly as they all realized they hadn't blown up and got to their feet. Twenty minutes later the experts were congratulating me on managing to defuse the car bomb, with sure idiocy one had said, but they nicely changed it to pure dumb luck in the report."

Sister giggled at that. "Oh Captain, how daring. And you really didn't know what you were doing?" She insisted.

"Not a thing. Closest I'd gotten to any IED at the time was my bunkmates broken alarm clock when he smashed it into the wall in frustration one morning."

Mercurial managed to change the subject and went back to reading in his rich tones for Sister letting John rest relatively unmolested. Eventually she decided it was time for dinner. John was glad to see a large portion of cabbage on a plate that Sister brought in for Carlyle. He rolled his eyes at the doctor gently.

"Cabbage for dinner, radishes for everything else," he laughed. "Thanks Doc." He teased to the laughter of the others nearby.

Sister pouted though. "It's for your health Carlyle, don't make the Captain feel bad for taking care of you." She stomped an angry foot.

"N-never, Sister." Carlyle said with a stutter. "I am grateful, I feel more alert and energized already with the Captains suggestions." He looked down at his feet.

John laughed with a yawn; reaching over to ruffle the young man's hair. "Not to worry Carlyle. Kid's never like there vegetables, probably how you ended up with your little deficiency." Causing the young man to blush and mutter about not being a kid which had the rest of them laughing.

Except Sister. "Captain." She said eyebrows drawn together. "You seem tired, perhaps you should retire." A soft nod and a familiar sharp hand was on his shoulder. He looked up into the face of Brother slim and managed not to flinch. He stood without question or looking at the others and raised a questioning eyebrow.

John let himself be led directly over to the small office; he balked at the door though and heard the cold chuckle from Slim as he was turned back towards the frozen cells. He was relieved to be pushed into the tiny room and have the ankle chain secured to the back wall. He sat cold, hungry, and alone, and ridiculously grateful for the water he'd managed earlier and the fact that he wasn't back in the cupboard. He curled around his legs and attempted to warm himself by breathing down the collar of his shirt. A clanging had him standing as his door was pulled back open. He stood ready to defend himself from Brother Slim come to take him back to the office.


	9. Chapter 9 - Tender Care

**Remember those warnings ... yea they do apply.**

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Chapter 9 - Tender Care

Brother Slam stood in the cells doorway and just looked for a moment. John took a step back unsure what to think of the man who had had no issues beating on him when he'd been chained and helpless the first night, but who had been kind to him this morning when he'd had no incentive. The Brother held out his arm and waited. John let his eyes dart down and was surprised to see a blanket. Cautiously he reached out and let his fingers brush the edges of the offering, Brother slam let go and John caught it automatically. The metal door closed and locked again and a brief glance at the barred window showed the man who confused him didn't even look back. John curled up in the blanket and was asleep in minutes.

"John?"

"John?"

"Do you think he took him again?"

"John!?"

John realized the voices weren't in his dream.

"Up. 'M up." He said peeling his eyes open. There were several sighs.

"You have got to stop irritating them!" Came the distressed tones of Mecurial.

"Nope." John let slip, and then groaned he hadn't meant to say that.

"You're doing it intentionally." Came the incredulous tenor of Vinicent, a hint of understanding.

"You're civilians." John explained. "Who's been hurt since I've been here?"

"Just you." Carlyle muttered.

"And before I got here."

The silence was telling.

"When everyone behaves everyone's a target." John clarified. "One trouble maker, one target. Tris, Thad, why weren't you here the first night?"

"Sister was feeling generous, we were already asleep we were left in the 'living room' nothing sinister. Mostly Brothers were probably too bored to move us anyway." Tristan threw out relieving John's worries quite well.

"Sherlock will be here soon. You should sleep; he tends to demand your full attention when he's around, regardless of your own needs." John smiled softly.

There was silence in the darkness and a voice he hadn't heard called through to him. "You have absolute faith in this man Sherlock. You've bet us on him, and yourself. Why isn't he here yet?"

"Because he's a selfish git who enjoys a grand entrance Nordstrom." John rolled his eyes. "He's not here yet because the trail was harder than is humanly possible. He'll be here. We've just got to hold out for him. He'll probably show up tonight just to spite you."

John woke to the soft clicking of his cells lock being open under a cloth to mute it. He sat up to see who was there, half expecting Sherlock, but was tackled an instant later by Brother Slim who pinned him easily and had already shoved the gag in his mouth, he fought valiantly but stilled as a knife point found his neck.

"John?" It was the sleepy voice of Carlyle.

Brother Slim leaned right next to his ear and whispered words that were barely there. "One noise and it's his throat I slit tonight."

John gave one small nod and they lay there in silence for close to fifteen minutes before the young man's breathing eased into sleep. Brother Slim flipped John easily to his stomach and cut away his makeshift bandages on his wrists squeezing each in a sick parody of affection, then reapplied the handcuffs. A heavy foot on his bad leg, right on the thigh where his knife wound had been kept John pinned as the man unlocked his ankle.

Silently he was hauled to his feet and led back to the 'living area' and straight to the office. John found he couldn't help fighting as he was thrust into the tiny room. Brother Slim didn't seem to mind though he even chuckled as he forced the shorter man right up to the open cupboard. He stopped just short of pushing John inside though.

"Step inside or I'll go play with Carlyle." He hissed running his knife up and down Johns throat. "I wonder how easy will it be to make him cry?" He taunted and John all but threw himself into the tiny space, hyperventilating as much as possible through his nose.

"Move from there and I'll carve your failure into his back." Brother Slim promised as he ever so slowly started to build John into the cupboard. Before John hadn't had a time to feel the growing dread, this time it took everything in him not to scream with each bag of cement.

It took a full ten minutes to bury him up to his neck. _I'm in London and Sherlock is coming. I'm in London and Sherlock is coming. I'm in London and Sherlock is coming. I'm in London and Sherlock is coming. I'm in London and Sherlock is coming. I'm in London and Sherlock is coming. I'm in London and Sherlock is coming. I'm in London and Sherlock is coming._ The chant wasn't helping really, but it was something to focus him.

Brother Slim surveyed his handiwork and he was amused by the sweating and tremor ridden doctor. He stood there watching as the man used visual clues to remind him where he was and grinned. He lifted the bag and almost laughed at the captains violent shaking of his head, the closest he could come to begging in his condition.

"Did you know Carlyle plays the piano. Well he used to. You need all your fingers for that. For every ten seconds you don't accept your bag he loses one of those fingers."

Immediately the terrorized doctor bowed his head and let Brother Slim slide the bag down over his head. He whimpered through the gag and shivered violently. Brother slim closed up the cupboard and locked it tightly leaving the doctor to his night. "Sweet dreams." He called viciously.

_I'm in London and Sherlock is coming. I'm in London and Sherlock is coming. Am I? I'm in London and Sherlock is coming. Sherlock is coming. Sherlock is coming. Don't come Sherlock, don't they'll get you too. NO I'm in London. London. London. Sherlock is coming. Please God don't let me die. Please God. Please. Please. Please. Sherlock is coming._

* * *

**I hate Slim. Just putting it out there, he's a slimey little toe-rag and I really don't like him at all. **


	10. Chapter 10 - My Name is John

Chapter 10 - My Name is John

When Brother Slam pulled John from the cupboard in the morning with a frown on his face John didn't fight. He barely reacted beyond a violent flinch then crumpling to the ground. He didn't try and make the man respond, simply removed the bag, gag, and handcuffs gently and lead him unresisting to the bathroom where he stood until Brother Slam put his hands under the water. 

John looked at the man with such wide terrorized eyes that the man simply sighed and took the facecloth and cleaned the tearstained face himself and made sure to let lots of water drip as John licked at the water that fell near his mouth. Brother Slam didn't take him to the 'living area' either. He led him straight back to his cell and left him curled up in his blanket.

John shuddered once the lock clicked shut and let out a wail into his arm. He cringed in disgust as he found he had soiled himself in his fear. He had frozen completely he couldn't even move at all when he'd been pulled free. He had been so desperate for it to be Sherlock he simply couldn't react to a face that wasn't his detective. He fell into a restless sleep where he jerked awake and despaired at finding himself in that tiny frozen cell and it was all he could do not to weep. Finally he fell into an exhausted sleep that not even his dreams could wake him from.

His old dreams of Afghanistan were most prominent, but some of his newer terrors rose as well. Such as not getting to the cabbie in time and being helpless as Sherlock took the pill, or opening the fridge and the head he had complained about the day he'd been taken had starting to talk loudly telling Lestrade loudly that Sherlock had killed him. No matter what John does he can't get it to shut up even though it is lying because John knows this face, he killed it. Shot it dead from under the cover of a scorched shell of a truck that stank of the burnt corpse he tries not to remember but can't not, the stench is stuck with him forever. He dreams of watching Donovan gloat and cheerfully take the lying head before a jury who sympathize with the dead man over his unfortunate demise, and of spears pointing at those he cares for and nothing he says nothing he admits will make them stop he's entirely helpless and he can't find Sherlock. Sherlock who gives him a meaning, who can't get his phone for himself but can turn Scotland Yard upside down in less than 4 minutes, he had John time him for an experiment. He runs in his dreams and collapses on his bad leg calling out for Sherlock to fix him, but he's not there, and he's not coming.

"Sherlock!" He whispered but he was awake and although he feels as though he's cried his face is dry. He's curled into the blanket for all the scant warmth it can manage to give him. He wrapped his arms tightly around his empty stomach and coughed pitifully and was sickened with himself. _Come on Soldier, you're no use to anyone like this. Pull yourself together. There's enough real threat to deal with without making up more! _

"Hamish." Came a voice. John lifted his eyes and saw Brother Slam at his door. "That's it. Come on Hamish there's water." The voice was gentle and he held up a cup to the bars.

John didn't ask why the man didn't just unlock the door. It didn't matter. He needed water and it was on offer. He pulled himself up and shuffled over to the door and wrapped his hands around the bars pulling his face right up to the middle two bars. Brother Slam held up a straw and John sucked down the water, sputtering when he realized it was just shy of being hot. But the doctor in him demanded he drank it, he was too cold and dehydrated, and it would treat both. He looked straight up at the top of the bars of the small window not willing to lock eyes with the large man who was confusing him. He wondered if it was Stockholm syndrome that had him so confused but dismissed the thought; he was a medical doctor, and that was a question for his therapist.

Soon the water was gone and John collapsed in the back corner shifting his feet back and forth to prove to himself that neither of them was fettered to the wall. The doctor told him to stop thinking he needed to rest. So he slept again and was woken hours later by the same call of "Hamish" surprised he hadn't seemed to dream.

"John." He whispered, not looking at the man. "My name is John, not Hamish."

"John then, come on you need this more than I need any trouble."

Brother Slam held up the cup and straw and John couldn't help but get up. Again he refused to look at the man as he slurped up the offering, but when he collapsed he whispered a thank you, and felt traitorous to himself for saying any kind words at all to his captor.

"Don't mention it." Was the reply and he knew Brother meant it. He was to say nothing of the encounter.

* * *

I think I've come to a point where apologizing is pointless. If I were Catholic confession might be a good choice. Maybe I just need to talk to someone, I feel so badly about what I've done. Also Slam wasn't supposed to act like he is. His character changed without my say so, so he confuses me as much as he confuses John. This chapter has a lot of elements pulled together and I worry it fails at setting the proper tone, like it might feel too sudden for John. I'd appreciate feedback on that if you feel up to it. Alright I'm off to pretend I'm not a horrible human being.


	11. Chapter 11 - Once More into Hell

**Remember how I apologized at the end of Chapter 10 ... this is why.**

* * *

Chapter 11 - Once More into Hell

He sat in the corner and was unable to sleep. His cheeks were warmed with embarrassment at his stench. He _knew_ it had been a fear reaction. He _knew_ he had nothing to be ashamed of, but it didn't stop the disgust he felt with himself. The thought that he should have been stronger, braver, just in control; he was a soldier after all. So the soldier fought with the doctor and he relegated them to a small corner of his mind while he tried to teach himself not to notice the odor. Hours past with him in a stupor, he wondered if Sherlock would rescue him or would take one look at him and send Lestrade in his place.

He heard the clanking of metal and hunched in on himself feigning sleep. When Carlyle called out to him he didn't answer but he shifted enough that he could here was in his cell. It seemed to appease the younger man and he fell into sleep shortly after, tired from the constant strain and the disease that ran through him untreated. Cabbage and radishes could only do so much, he needed medicine. John pressed himself into the corner and hoped Sherlock got here soon.

The dark had him drifting off to sleep. When he woke it was just as sudden and he immediately looked to the door, still closed. It shouldn't comfort him to know he was still alone. He almost relaxed when he pulled further into the corner on instinct. Brother Slim had been standing right behind him as he huddled into the corner. He stilled when the knife touched his cheek and shuddered, he didn't fight the handcuffs that clicked close pressing into the cuts that littered his wrists, he didn't make a sound.

"I don't need to remind you at all do I, Hamish?" The man hummed thoughtfully. "So very good. Not a noise now. Stand up."

John did as he was told holding his hands as still as possible in their bindings and letting his blanket fall from his shoulders. But he let himself turn to face the man. Brother Slim wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"You're repulsive." He dipped for an instant and picked up a bucket he had hidden behind him, not that John would have noticed it had it been in his hand. "Hold still."

John closed his eyes and gasped and shuddered as the freezing water was flung on him. But he didn't make a noise, and he didn't move.

"Shall we Hamish?" The man gestured to the door which pushed open without a sound.

John forced himself to shut down. He was going to find Sherlock and he was probably in the office. Telling himself the lie did make it easier. He knew if Sherlock came he would want to check any papers first, people always wrote down the stupidest things. Like the cousin who had written a post-it reminder of where he'd hidden the murder weapon that was the only evidence against him. Once he was inside the office though and the door closed behind him he shuddered. He turned to Brother Slim, part of him desperate to beg to just not be put back. He _knew_ it was a cupboard, but once he was in there it wasn't a cupboard anymore but _hell._ Pure hell and there was no escape.

He opened his mouth to say please, or ask no, but it was filled immediately by the damned hanky and a strong hand held his head still while the other secured the ruined tie. John had a moment to shake his head and his eyes flashed with anger and hatred. He hoped Lestrade shot the bastard when they came. He didn't doubt for a moment they would come. Sherlock would always come. _I'm in London, and Sherlock is coming._

He bolstered himself and went and stood in front of the closed cupboard waiting for the man to open the door. It was a false bravado and it wouldn't hold, he knew that too, but it didn't matter. He needed to hold onto it for as long as possible. As long as possible turned out putting his first leg up onto the tiny ledge to climb inside, then his bad leg gave out on him and he crumbled trembling. _It's a cupboard, Sherlock is coming, get up Soldier. Please God please. Sherlock, hurry._

Brother Slim picked him up violently and thrust him gasping as much as possible through his nose. Wet from head to toe and compelled to stand among the cement the dust rose and stuck to him he couldn't breathe. Brother Slim didn't give him a moment to fight, just forced the bag over his head and started throwing the cement in trapping the doctor. A keening noise escaped and Brother Slim actually laughed as he locked the man in his own personal hell.

John descended again and as he fell he had no idea that his demon stayed. When he finally stopped keening, stopped fighting, stopped to fall into an unconscious state the demon got up from his chair and quietly went up to the cupboard and banged and shook it and yelled confident he couldn't be heard except by his captive audience. The effect of his world shaking and roaring deafeningly had John fighting all the harder, nose coated with damp cement dust had him wheezing he was trapped, he had been blown up in the cave-ins, he was dead but didn't know it. His chest seized and his body flailed he had to get free, he had to find Sherlock. Sherlock, could stop the earth shaking.

_Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. SHERLOCK!_

He sobbed around the gag and didn't notice the acrid odor that soaked him in his fear. He even knew he was acting irrationally. He couldn't remember why it was irrational, just that in his mind his Sherlock voice was tutting at him to calm down and observe. But it was impossible to observe in that cave pinned down, bleeding, and blind. Warm blood coated his hands and must be pouring from his damned leg. He shouted "er-ah" "er-ah" desperately through his gag as though the mangled name would bring his detective to him.

His world wouldn't stop falling apart around him and it wasn't until morning was breaking that his tormentor left bored of his game and tired for his own bed. John though was terrified, the moment he fell the world would punish him. He twitched and jerked desperate to stay aware. _Sherlock please. Sherlock help. _Tears left tracks in the concrete dust under the black bag and collected on the ruined silk tie that may have belonged to Caractacus.

* * *

**Two chapters left. Bear with me John. My poor John. What have I done to you?**


	12. Chapter 12 - Find Me, Hear Me, See Me

Chapter 12 - Find Me, Hear Me, See Me

The cave was nearly silent. John tried so very hard not to be audible. He was trapped but they hadn't grabbed him, they hadn't taken him, he was safe if he stayed silent. If he was silent they wouldn't find him. He'd made it away and they were so close. He could feel them, lights searching for him. Invisible lights that sought him out in his blindness, he held perfectly still. He couldn't let them find him. They were so close. So damn _close!_

_Sherlock, please. Please Sherlock. Please, please, please._

A sound of rustling just outside his tiny cave. _Oh god, they're here where are you Sherlock._

A knock that echoed a metal heartbeat, it rang in his ears and he stopped breathing.

Loud voices converging on him he shivered. A scuffle. They were coming, they were breaking through the rubble he was dead oh so dead, or worse caught. He whimpered. And the light burst through his black bag and he froze.

The crevasse was torn away from him. Hands were on him. He screamed.

He screamed and jerked and kicked and wept.

_SHERLOCK! SHERLOCK! HELP ME! SHERLOCK!_

The bag was ripped from him, his shoulders steadied and his gag removed even as his head lurched back and forth violently. Freed from the gag he finally screamed, but he could form no words just a long cry of despair, loss, fear, and terror. He clamped his mouth shut and muttered, weeping, shuddering and wanting.

"Sherlock, please, don't Sherlock stay back they'll get you. Hurry Sherlock please, help me. No! NO!" He let out a half whispered string of Farsi and kicked himself back scooting until he hit the cave's edge where he just hunched down into his knee's arms still bound behind him by the sharp metal cuffs. There were people in front of him. He couldn't bring himself to look. He was about to die bleeding out from a shoulder wound, a stab wound, whatever was wrong with his hands and he couldn't bring himself to look at his killers face.

_No shame in fear Soldier._ The officer said gently._ Seeing death doesn't make it any easier._ The doctor assured him and he shivered.

_Dammit John, look! How can you observe when you refuse to see!_ The Sherlock voice wouldn't leave him be and he drowned out his other more rational voices.

_I am the rational._ The Sherlock voice cried in a fit of pique. _Open your damn eye's John._

Slowly, pressed against the wall, John cracked an eye open.

"Come on John, open your eyes."

He felt long fingers on his shoulders. Brother Slim, he flinched. But they were warm and not sharp. He leaned back willing himself to believe if only for a moment that he was safe. He heard a door shut and his eyes snapped open. The second person was gone, just warm hands were left.

"Relax John. I'm here. John? John?"

The voice was wrong. It wasn't arrogant. It wasn't bored. Whose voice was it? Why weren't they demanding anything?

"John, wake up."

That was the voice he knew. That voice was safe.

"I swear John if you don't get up this instant I'll set fire to your favorite jumper."

"Sh-lck?" John pressed back into the thin man's chest and felt the great coat fall about him as elegant fingers slid down and fiddled gently with his wrists.

"Yes John. Do you think you could manage the whole two syllables this time?"

"Sherlock." John managed looking at the face but not seeing still. There was a tiny click and the metal bindings were slipped off and disappeared into a pocket.

"Sherlock!" John seemed to realize all at once he turned himself around and burrowed his face deep into the man's neck and wrapped his arms around his chest under the coat in a death grip and sobbed great heaving breaths of relief. Muttering the detectives name over and over again.

_I'm in London and Sherlock is coming. I'm in London and Sherlock is coming. I'm in London and Sherlock is coming. I'm in London and Sherlock is coming._

"I'm in London, and Sherlock is coming."

"Wrong on both counts I'm afraid."

John stilled in the detectives arms.

"We're quite a way's from London, and I've already arrived."

John didn't move though. He didn't react when Lestrade walked in and paled at the site of the traumatized doctor, nor did he note the subtle shake of Sherlock's head warning off the well-meaning Detective Inspector, and he definitely didn't see the death worthy scowl thrown at the door when Lestrade didn't immediately leave. He didn't know how long he sat there reassuring himself that Sherlock was real and not a hallucination. When the EMT's arrived and tried to pry him loose he fought viciously and tried to burrow deeper into Sherlock's coat. He was unaware of the bruised wrist one of the EMT's received from Sherlock's intervention when he had tried to sedate the doctor.

When Sherlock shifted him, somehow moving his coat at the same time so it slipped from his shoulders and onto the smaller man while his hands were gripped in the doctors own cold fingers, John barely protested. Although when they tried to pull his fingers free the noise he made was so pitiful that the EMT worried for his other wrist and was thankful that the frightening man's hands were occupied. The scowl was alarming enough. They managed to carry the man down and out of the strange warehouse that seemed like a cross between the set of a strange suspense thriller movie and a slumber party. They loaded the man in the ambulance and they simply allowed the man who was managing to keep their patient calm in to sit by his side. He didn't move at all. He didn't ask redundant questions. His eyes took in every motion though and it was unnerving. But it was their patient that kept them on their toes. He would just stare at the man and every once in a while whisper the name "Sherlock" and squeeze the tall man's hands violently, it must have hurt but the man wouldn't even flinch.

At every desperate "Sherlock!?" He would lean forward and speak calmly to the man, almost meanly but it worked.

"Yes John? I'm right here, did you forget?"

"Yes John, that's my name. Did you have something important to say?"

"You know John I don't get dressed for anything less than a five. You'll have to be more interesting."

"And John? It must be so frightfully dull in your limited brain."

That last one actually made the terrified man chuckle and loosened his grip as he let go of the terror and simply fell into an exhausted unconsciousness.

The dark haired man turned his sharp eyes to the EMT, and spoke rapidly. "He is Doctor John Watson. Under no circumstances will anyone other than you, your partner and myself know of his soiling incident. You will take us to Saint Bart's, which I'm sure you're driver has been informed of anyway. If you say a single word of this incident, in deed, word, or even gesture they will never find your body. No one will ever hear of your involvement and you will consider yourself lucky for having been of service to this man even if you will never know why. Am. I. Clear?"

Both EMT's simply nodded and got back to work having cut the man out of the sodden clothes at the command of his terrifying sentry they washed him professionally while his modesty was protected by the great black coat. They cleaned the brutal wrist wounds thoroughly and bandaged them, inserted an IV of fluids and basically tried to ignore the grey eyes that observed every motion on the much longer ride than they had expected. It was a full hour later that they arrived at Saint Bart's and started to exit to see their patient to the safety of the hospital they were withheld by the staff of Saint Bart's who rushed into the ambulance and took their patient, his guard, and all the paperwork that proved they had gone anywhere at all. The two EMT's and the driver decided it was a good time for an early lunch before their long ride back to their district, and promptly forgot even having heard an emergency dispatch order that morning. Which was a good thing, because the records never existed half an hour later.

* * *

**FINALLY! Sherlock! I know, right? Seriously.**

And Sherlock scared me when he spoke to the EMT. Good scary, but still scary.

Also bonus points for anyone who figured out who the second person was. (... spoiler - you don't find out until the next story ...)


	13. Chapter 13 - Return, Awaken, Remember

Chapter 13 - Return, Awaken, Remember

John was trying to wake up. He knew he was asleep. He had to do something important, but he couldn't remember what it was. He shifted and winced, why did he hurt. He was so thirsty. Why wouldn't they let him have a drink? Why was it so warm? Wasn't it cold yesterday? Was O'Riley still alive? No, not O'Riley, O'Riley made it home.

"Carlyle?" He sat up suddenly and his forehead collided with something hard, he fell back and winced. His whole body felt as though he'd run a marathon on top of an Iron Man. He groaned and looked to see what had attacked him. He saw a man with his hand to his forehead lips turned in a thoughtful frown as he looked down at John.

"Sherlock!" And with that one word everything came rushing back and his eyes clouded with the memories. He shivered and then his soldier mask snapped down. "Carlyle? The others?"

"There all fine, back home already. You did well John." The man said, not mentioning the vice like grip on his hand, John needed it and it was his left hand anyway he could function easily without it for a while. He pocketed his phone quietly and gave John his full attention which didn't even phase the doctor, informing the detective his blogger was far from alright.

He was stopped from commenting and demanding his instant return to health by the bustling intrusion of Mrs. Hudson.

John's eyes grew wide and he looked at Sherlock with an epiphany.

"She's Mycroft's plant." He whispered squeezing Sherlock's hand so tightly he had to force himself to keep still.

"Don't be ridiculous John." He said with an eye-roll. "Mycroft thinks too small; he couldn't possibly fathom Mrs. Hudson."

* * *

**Yay, an end. The second story will hopefully be up later this week, that's where all the comfort from the hurt/comfort will happen. I promise there will be comfort. Awkward Sherlock comfort, irritating well meant Mycroft comfort, and of course motherly feed you up just this once Mrs. Hudson comfort. (I'm hoping I get to use the Mycroft scene ... it's being irritating and not fitting properly, just like that man isn't it, gah!)**


End file.
